I woke up to the faint sound of her breathing. Slow. Steady. Too perfect.
For a second, I thought I'd dreamed yesterday — the suitcases, the arguments, the smug smile — but then I felt the weight beside me and yeah, no, reality was worse.
She was there. In my bed. Wearing one of my t-shirts like she'd been born in it, hair a gorgeous mess across the pillow. And she was… God.
I rolled onto my side without thinking, my eyes tracing the curve of her cheek, the soft arch of her brow, down to the tiny gold hoops in her ears. Then her nose — that annoyingly perfect button nose — and then…
Her lips.
Oh. Her lips.
I stared like an idiot, my brain helpfully reminding me how they'd felt under mine before. How warm. How soft. How distracting.
And then my gaze drifted up again — and froze.
Because she was awake.
And smiling.
Like she'd just caught me in the middle of a crime.
"Good morning, babe," she said, her voice still heavy with sleep.
I swallowed. "Morning."
